Prayers Amid the Olives of Gethsemane

                Can one man change the world merely by existing? I certainly think it not possible. Thousands, millions even – maybe more. How can one hand touch all of those? How can a man make his ideas survive the test of time when fate seems to determine that change must occur, and the changes are always led by those who desire to control? I don’t know if I can do anything, yet I feel I have to. After all, who else can counter the powers that otherwise enslave men? Man does not need to live by rule, man can rule himself. He merely needs guidance. I want to be the guide, but why does no one help me? Why are my ideas so difficult to get across? Who will listen?

                Where did it all start? Was it when I was born? My birth was, to me, the most unremarkable thing to have occurred in my life. That is how well infanthood swaddles those early tribulations in joy and awe, instead of worrying about the times you were crying as a babe you see, in your new found consciousness a world of wonder.  Some say my birth was special, but they say that about all children, don’t they? Father, if there is anything special in me I beg you take it back.

                They say all sorts of things to me, those followers of mine, they think I’m special. It hurts to be looked up to. Am I not flesh? Am I not blood? I am both of these things therefore I am as lowly as they are. I am no hope, I am no salvation. I am just a man. So why then do they admire me so? Why do they see me as different? Some look up to me, and yet for the same reasons others hate me. Who is correct? I can’t help but side with those who hate me, knowing I’m just a man, believing I’m nothing special, I must have done something wrong for others to think otherwise.

                I spoke to my friends. They sleep now, but I cannot. They say I am betrayed. It is not just my former friends who have betrayed me though, is it? They tell me I am special, that I am chosen. I am neither, I am cursed. I have been suckled on a chalice of poison. Will you take this cup from me?

                Betrayed? They say I am to die. What is it to die? I’m not sure I want to. Father, I fear. I’m scared, father. My heart races, it seems as though the fear itself could kill me. I sweat blood at the thought, to never see another sight, tell another tale, make another smile and laugh, nurse the injured and ill, to never have influence, to never have senses, to never dwell in this mortal realm again – I am afraid. Some say this was foretold all along, father that cannot be true, can it? Why should I be born only to suffer, to die?

                They say I am a prophet, a messiah. That my coming was foretold, my doings preplanned, my life presupposed from the very beginning. Would a father create a child only to kill him? What monster acts in creation? And what merit is there, if good is preordained, in the actions of a man who acts not of his own will, but merely of fate? They tell me I am good, but how can I be? Surely I only did as was planned, not as I decided. Perhaps the devil in Eden was right about the knowledge of good and evil. The evil person who performs one good act out of choice does more good than a person who does good because it was etched in destiny, and he can do nothing else.

                Life, well to me life is like a mountain. We are born on one side, and on the other we must die. Some, taking the easy way, they take a guide and they hike up the side. They struggle and they huff and they heave and they get sick and they get maimed, and many fall along the way. They are led by others into a deliberate struggle because they are taught that’s what they should do and how they should do it. They shout that the way is not fair, but that’s just the nature of it. They say there is no changing it. I, meanwhile, disagree. I wish to stay at the base, and pick and claw and dig at the rock until I find my own way to the other side. It’s harder, sure. It takes a hell of a lot of effort. But it’s my effort, it’s my choice. And I create a path easier for everyone else to traverse. They no longer need a guide, for the way is clear, and it is fairer for all if all traverse it fairly.  Can I dig that tunnel? People seem to expect me to.

                Expectation, it’s a horrible thing. Each man must drink of his own cup, but there are plenty of men happy to tell you their wine is better and you should drink it how they do. Eventually some of these people are listened to. Then suddenly everyone says you must drink the wine as they do. My cup is made for me, and my wine may not be as sweet, but it is savour to me, at least so long as it has not been poured by the hand of cruel fate, but kisses my lips by my own decision.

                What is a decision anyway? How are our choices made? Are they shaped by current consciousness, by in-the-moment thoughts? Or are they simply a product of all else we have seen and done? In that case are they even free choices anyway? Father I have so many questions, must you take me so soon? Must you ensure they remain unanswered?

                Since my incarnation I have thought of nothing but the cruelty of it all, the cruelty of life, how cruel it is to have the living die. Father, why? What is life? What are these amalgamations of activity we call living beings? From what stuff are they made? Where from? If your hands are so powerful as to create them all, and you fashion them with infinite souls why must their life be finite? Some say life is a test and that you wish to judge people. But you make people. Your hands lead to their creation; your hands lead them in their lives, so their failures are yours. Are you so scared of your own failure that you’d curse the innocent before accepting fault? Would you forsake your own creations as, right now, my brothers forsake me?

                I come to believe, father, that you are not our salvation, but are the opposite. I come to find that those rules you have imposed are barbaric, that the order you create is simply selfish power. You allow the dogs to bite at your flock – and then you send me, they say, to die for them. How foolish.

I know you can make me no promises about how things would be if I choose this supposed fate. You have made man in your image and, in so far as that is true, they are doomed. But I wish to at least give them a little boost of the breath of life in their lungs, so that they may have a chance at the peace and prosperity I desire for them. There are fools in their ranks, there are bigots and thieves and women of ill reputation, there are beggars and criminals, bankers, liars and murderers, all of them deserve better. There’s none born to steal, none born to kill. They become that way. Your world, the world they were given by their Lord and creator, it is that which drives them to greed, adultery and murder. Their indiscretions need no forgiving, you standing idly by does.

                Father, I will go. When the soldiers come, I will go - but not for you. I go for them. For you have cursed them, you have played them for fools. When Eve bit of the apple in Eden you cast her and Adam from the garden not because they had done wrong, but because they then possessed sufficient knowledge to know you had done wrong. You cast them out because they saw through your faults. They saw that you are as faulted as they, jealous and angry, vainglorious and petty, selfish and greedy. I will die, father, and in my death forgiveness must come. But it is not they who need forgiving, it is you.

                I hear footsteps. The time has come. 

The Cost

Burnt tar rivers, cobalt skies.
Overpopulation, sea levels rise.
Seven billion and counting, each of them cries.
Few truly live, each one dies.

Corrupt institutions stand like Goliath monuments,
giving with condition and taking without consequence.
Walking a fine line between reality and nonsense,
as the people wield in a submissive state of conscious.
Where, then, is your conscience?

You say you want to help them out, then you want to take their water,
tens of thousands of fully captive slaves, financially made to order.
Families forced to take the orders or flee to our racist borders
where hateful porters throw him in cells of bricks and mortar,
takes him from his wife, takes his hope and takes his daughters.

Where, then, is the human in us all?
Is it lost to profits? Are we doomed to fall?
Is there no brother-and-sisterhood?
Is there no longer any good?
Are profits worth more than the Earth?

Adversity (Courage)

So maybe in the past I've been shy of singing my own praises,
but that's the past, let's take the bar and give it a few raises.
From the anxious bastard who wanders his own flat in nervous paces,
to the fearless git who would literally stab a baby to be first in the races,
Maybe I've finally grown into the selfish fucker with many faces
who can manipulate the world as he pleases with his swarthy graces. 

The Prodigal finally returned from stasis, doing up his shoe's laces 

and getting ready for business, vicious and somewhat less than prestigious  

writing words to inspire the religious, litigious. An overweight leader of the resistance,

With an overwhelming capacity to create insistence, 

who wins nothing with talent but everything with his persistence.
He tried to kill himself multiple times but his body just wouldn't quit, 

who tried to talk nonsense but his mouth just wouldn't talk shit, 

insisting instead on speaking truths, no matter how horrific 

a prolific abuser of words specific, talking in generalisations that are vague and yet holistic.
I drive the world ballistic, a straight talking spastic in a world full of cryptics,
I'm a triptych; the father who's mystic, the ghost there to diss shit 

and finally the son who pays the world a history making visit. 

If you think everything's fine then you are deranged, 

a human in chains sent to make sure effort is spent undoing ignorant gains. 

I don't make hollow claims, I'll change your world view given half a chance,
I don't just talk the steps, I dance the dance.
I'll use every power my mind and body grants to ensure you possess the same stance,
and if you don't agree, that's fine with me, as long as you've got eminence.
Most of the time all I see is cognitive decadence and deceit dressed up as argument

like you were trying to be presidents. If you've got a point to prove I need evidence
I can't just take it on word, 

presenting an argument without makes you like Farage in a toilet, 

You are a hate-mongering turd. 

So Mercer finally returns to his words and burns with his verse
Like God and The Devil rolled into one, a blessing and curse, 

willing to call out hypocrisy, even in himself, like a real bad one, 

here he'd made a joke about his wealth, if he fucking had one.
But refusing to be a part of the system leaves him a bum, unemployed, 

and relying on disability - reliant on the father of his state like he were a boy. 

The world doesn't pay thinkers, just spineless doers, 

9-to-5 in mindless tasks means they kind of screw us.

Your Prime Ministers and Presidents laugh as much at your heroes as they do us.
Let's unite in solidarity with bonds so strong they can't undo us. 

Why Optimism is Non-Sense

The sorry, sniffling nostrils cannot appreciate the floral airs.

Sadness masking true beauty, and who is to blame?

Should the scent be stronger, pollen larger, 

senses driven to heightened sensitivity to compensate 

to allow the appreciation of the fragrant midst the stench. 

Should the touch of the rough be ignored for the smooth, 

Or the sight of the pretty deny that of the ugly? 

What sights, dear optimists, should be etched retinally 

when ugliness is my availability? 

I'd rather see the sorrow, and know its presence.
I'd rather guilt than denial.
I'd rather hear the cries, than drown them out.
I'd rather sadness than joy.
I'd rather recognise the inconvenient, 

I'd rather one have awareness of the problem, all the better to fix it. 

To Death

That never sweetly comes.
An arrogant boatman,
Carried by the currents of nurture, love and loss,
Blown by the reliable tradewinds of time,
Pulled to shore by the waves of indignity.
You'll believe suicide can be brave.

We all talk of curtain's close,
the actors retreat.
But the stage remains.
The seats too.
Empty.

From the lowliest, to heroes.
Black suits mean no glory.
It's washed away on the pallid face.
Poignant poems and posies
and the sombre horse drawn hearse
just another sunset in a war.

"Is it dark?" I wonder,
"When you have no concept."
And as my doll-like figure, fragile,
stumbles druggedly, I know.
Soon I'll find out.
I'm scared.
Soon I'll find out.

The Trouble

There’s no God in the wild,
only spirits getting riled,
Life and flesh all defiled,
I only hope my death’s in style.

Because one thing: it’s certain.
Sunset and the curtains.
Life and death always flirtin’.
The fleeting life of a person.

The dark path, ever paved.
There’s nobody getting saved.
In hindsight, having felt is so depraved.
There’s no feeling in the grave.

Every breath huffing, puffing.
all the hard living and roughing,
all the guilt from the bluffing.
no one told me it means nothing.

Thoughts through my head,
trails I have led.
True word I’ve said.
Empty, now I’m dead.

So why is it worth it?
Trying to be perfect
people act like they deserve it
when they’re as impermanent as the rest.
Now I’m at rest
I truly detest
those undergoing the test
and still living
under illusion,
so much confusion,
what does it mean?
If I told you nothing,
you would be green!
Envy overcoming your essence,
If it means nothing,
why do I suffer these lessons?
What is God
If not the memory of my impressions?
if not the quintessence?
of everything, every soul, every being?
if it means nothing,
then what I am seeing?
Is any of it real?
This, the trouble I feel. 

Cold Fear

Cold fog curses creep through my brain,
under my skin like parasites
and leeching my bad blood.
Ground to dust,
Ground to dust,
those dreams you once cradled.

Incompetent fool and idle thinker,
roll up your sleeves.
There’s more to come from you yet.
Another lashing will see to that.
Pile up the tasks,
Pile up the tasks,
Arbeit Macht Frei.

Homogeneity
Fall into line. Straighten up your tie.
Polish your shoes with the rags,
they’re all you have and all you need.
Mirror like shine,
Mirror like shine,
But no face looks back through the cracked leather.

I am the ethereal.
Burned, ripped material.
Bound for a hell that doesn't exist
and living in one that does.
Pull yourself together,
Pull yourself together,
as if that’s possible when you’re split in two.

 We stay as children.